


a hammer or a fist

by ohallows



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Fighting, Found Family, Monsters, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-05 16:36:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21211700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohallows/pseuds/ohallows
Summary: So, what really happened with that werewolf in Worthing?





	a hammer or a fist

**Author's Note:**

> WOOOO ITS GIRLS WEEK HELL YEAH
> 
> day 1: peril/injury/adrenaline

Moonbeams shine through the trees, illuminating two solid figures and a white mist as they dance through the woods. Sam cocks their gun and fires another shot off into the darkness as snarls echo throughout the air. 

“We gotta go we gotta go we gotta go!” they yell, tearing off through the woods as a dark, shadowy shape chases them down. The light of the full moon reveals the terror on their face, and Cleo swears under her breath as Bette floats along behind her at a breakneck pace. 

The abandoned church is just up ahead, where they’ve set the trap for the beast chasing us, but the branches and wood snapping behind them are getting louder and closer,  _ much _ too quickly for Bette’s comfort. 

“Betty, can you slow them down?” Cleo yells, dodging as a large, clawed paw swipes toward her, and Bette swears, stopping in place as she turns around and throws her hands up. There’s a bright light that shines from her and a squeal of pain as the werewolf backs away, but only for a moment.

It’s fine - it’s enough time for them to get in the church and step over the trap, meeting up with Sam as they check both of them worriedly for injuries. Bette does the same - Cleo’s got a shallow gash on her arm, and Sam’s got a cut on their forehead and is looking a little shaken. 

The werewolf is inside not nearly a moment later, and the trap goes off, silver-dusted ropes springing up around it as it howls in pain. Cleo moves forward slightly as it strains against the restraints, motioning for Sam and Bette to stay behind her as she creeps up. Bette doesn’t listen, obviously, floating along beside Cleo and giving the struggling werewolf a wary look. Her eyes drift down to the ropes, watching intently for any sign of fraying. 

“You got the silver bullets?” Cleo asks Sam, and turns to see them giving her a deer-in-headlights look. 

“S - the  _ what? _ ” Sam stutters, blinking more and more rapidly, and Cleo swears softly under her breath.

“I told you to - they were in the car, Sam, we need them to kill this thing -“

“How was I supposed to know?” Sam says, voice getting steadily higher as they glance around the church, almost like they’re hoping the bullets will magically appear somewhere. 

“I  _ told you about it  _ -“

“I was distracted -“

“Er, guys?” Bette calls, watching as the werewolf tears at the rope. It’s starting to move more violently now, even with the ropes digging into its skin and causing blood to pool on the floor.

“Sam,” Cleo is saying, fingers rubbing at her temples, “this is why I need you to  _ listen to me _ when I speak -“

“It’s not my fault! Betty was doing something cool with her hands, I was distracted, and-“

“Guys -“ she tries, louder this time, but Cleo either doesn’t hear or doesn’t care, still lecturing Sam about leaving the bullets behind while they stammer out excuses. 

“Werewolf -“ she warns; when neither of them look at her, still squabbling, Bette sighs  _ heavily _ and throws her hands up, snapping, and suddenly there’s a crack as loud as thunder reverberating through the church, shutting them up. “Oi!  _ Look!” _

Cleo and Sam both turn, Cleo angry and Sam stressed, and then both of their eyes widen as they look over Bette’s shoulder. 

“Oh,  _ shite _ ,” Cleo breathes, and Bette grabs her and pulls as a piece of wood comes flying their way. Sam ducks as a stone the size of a fist nearly clobbers them in the skull, and then they’re all scrambling away, Sam heading one way while Bette and Cleo go the other.

They’ve been on their fair share of hunts together by now; it’s instinctive, the way they move. Cleo distracts the werewolf while Sam gets out of the way, chambering another round in their gun and taking cover. They shoot the werewolf in the shoulder and it screams in pain and anger; it doesn’t slow it down, exactly the opposite. The beast tears more ferociously at its bindings and Bette glances around wildly for something,  _ anything  _ that can help. 

“I told you we shouldn’t have done this on a full moon, I  _ told _ you -“ Bette says, and while nearly all the other ghost bits are proper rubbish, not having lungs and never losing her breath is a plus. She throws her hands in front of her face on instinct, but the debris from the werewolf thrashing just sail through her. And, yeah, alright, that bit’s nifty, too. 

Cleo and Sam aren’t as lucky. Sam dives behind the altar with a high-pitched scream; the rifle clatters out of their hands and skids across the floor, and Cleo catches a brick in the shoulder, going down with a cry as Bette runs over to her. Sam scrambles out from behind the altar and dashes over as well, disregarding the gun on the floor. 

“Cleo, Cleo!” they call, dropping to their knees. Their hands flutter uselessly around the wound before they look up at Bette. “Betty, can you heal her?”

She can, and does, eyes squeezing shut as she presses her hands to the rip in Cleo’s shirt. The skin knits back together under her fingertips, and Sam breathes a quiet “ _ Wicked _ ,” as she does. Cleo gives her a grateful look and sits up, Bette’s arm around her back to help support her.

They glance over, just in time to see the werewolf finally breaking the final rope and snarling, crouching down on all fours as it turns bright, red,  _ angry _ eyes on the three of them. 

“Oh,  _ sh-“ _ Sam starts, until Bette slaps them (gently) on the shoulder. 

“Language,” she warns, ignoring Sam’s incredulous look, and then the werewolf is on them and they’re scattering, Sam diving to the left as Cleo throws herself to the right; Bette stays where she is and the werewolf goes through her with a confused grunt, crashing into a set of pews. 

Bette goes over to Cleo, and yells “Gun!” over to Sam, who clocks it and ducks down to grab the rifle off the floor as they head to the opposite side of the church.

“Why didn’t we do this three days ago, we  _ knew -“ _

“Yes, I admit it, you were right!” Cleo yells, ducking behind a pew in the church as rocks sail by her face. “Kill werewolf first, lord it over me later, I don’t care, but can we please -“ the pew next to her crumbles as a stone statue collapses on it - “focus on  _ this!”  _

Cleo is right, because of course she is, and Bette peeks over the top of the pew to see the werewolf staggering toward them. Its healing factor must not have kicked in yet, since it’s still bleeding heavily from Sam’s shot and the silver-dusted ropes that had been digging into its body. They need to move on it now, then, take advantage of its weakness. 

There’s another loud crack that rends the air, followed by a second, and the werewolf stumbles back and howls, blood and fur exploding from where Sam had hit them. It turns angry,  _ hungry _ eyes on Sam, and they squeak before diving back behind the podium. Bette glances around frantically for something to distract the wolf - it’s moving slowly but it’s still dangerous. Never corner a hurt animal, and all that - especially not if you’re the one who hurt it. 

A rock sails past her head and connects with the wolf; she spins around, only to see Cleo already palming another. “Like that?” she screams, and the wolf snarls and turns on her, forgetting about Sam. It stalks toward Cleo now, intent upon its prey, and Cleo stands there with blood on her arm and stares it down, fury etched across her face.

“Betty!” Sam shouts, and she glances in their direction, just to see them wiggling their fingertips at her. “Can’t you just - you know?” 

She can damned well try - closing her eyes, she gathers her power and focuses on the werewolf, trying to ensnare it in invisible ropes before it can reach Cleo. It flows through her, pulsating through veins she no longer has, and then it streams out of her fingertips. 

Silver coils wrap around the werewolf as it halts in place, head turning as it tries to move, tries to break through the bonds. Sam cheers from behind the pew and Bette gives them a Look, capital-L, as she tries to keep focus. It’s hard - the werewolf is straining against her, still trying to get to Cleo as its jaws snap. Cleo is staring at Bette with something that might be awe or might be worry, and Bette can’t help but look back, hoping against hope that Cleo can’t read the fear and love on her face. 

Bette feels herself flicker as she loses control for a moment, and stumbles - something she really shouldn’t be able to do as a ghost. The bonds snap, and the werewolf is howling again as it bounds toward Cleo.

Cleo screams in rage as she  _ squares up  _ against a werewolf, narrowly dodging its claws and teeth as she bobs and weaves around it, getting in a fair few hits of her own. Sam, for their part, is shaking behind a pew, gun clenched in their hands. 

She glances around wildly, and sees a weapon up near the front of the church, laying among the ruins of the altar Sam had been crouching behind earlier. It’s glinting in the moonlight, and - gods, they can’t be  _ this _ lucky, can they?

Maybe they can be. She dashes up to the altar and picks up the knife - it looks like something ceremonial and the handle is rusted, but it’s still sharp as sin and Bette somehow knows it’s a silver knife. 

“Cleo!  _ Catch! _ ” Bette yells, and (maybe against her better judgment) tosses the blade over to Cleo who, miracle of miracles, catches it by the hilt. In one smooth motion she turns and buries the silver-tipped blade into the werewolf’s throat, grunting with effort as she rips through its esophagus. 

Maybe Bette shouldn’t find Cleo this attractive, not when blood is arcing through the air as she pulls the knife out, but she can’t really find it in herself to care. Cleo looks like an avenging angel, moon staining her skin a mottled array of color as she’s backlit against the stained glass window. She’s...  _ breathtaking _ . Or would be, if Bette had any breath left to give. Bette glances away, schooling her face into a much more appropriate and subdued ‘impressed’ expression; she does still need to keep up the facade of ‘Betty’, as it stands. 

Cleo is breathing heavily as the werewolf collapses to the floor in a pile of its own blood on the floor of the church. She shakes her head and pieces of debris and dust fall out of her afro, settling on the dirty floor beneath them. 

It’s oddly quiet in the church now, tiny motes of dust drifting along in the moonbeams. Cleo is holding her arm tight to her chest, staring with distaste at the werewolf on the ground below her. “That’s that sorted,” she says, cold anger turned into exhaustion as she turns away from it to face Bette and Sam. “Lucky you, finding that knife. Good toss, Betty.”

Cleo flips the dagger around in her hands - again, it shouldn’t be as hot as it is, but Bette’s never pretended to be anything other than hopelessly attracted to anything Cleo does. 

“Anytime,” Bette says, giving Cleo her best attempt at a bright smile. 

Sam starts clapping, from behind her, as they finally peek out from behind the pew. “That was well good,” they say, and there’s no small amount of awe in their voice, even as it cracks. “Betty, did you see that? Did you see Cleo? It was cracking, that, christ, she was amazing!”

“Yes, Sam, I saw,” Bette says distractedly, floating over to Cleo and pressing her hands to her arm. “I can help,” she says, and Cleo gives her a smile.And there’s  _ almost  _ something in her smile, something soft and fond and familiar, and then it’s gone, bitten off as Cleo turns her head away, looking almost ashamed. 

Bette wants to tell her. So badly,  _ so _ badly, but she can’t be sure Cleo won’t look at her with betrayal and hate. She stays silent, and her hands grow warm as she heals Cleo’s cut. Cleo’s holding her left arm awkwardly, and Bette goes to heal that as well but Cleo pulls away. Bette feels her heart shrink a little as her chest lurches.

“We should… clean this up?” Bette suggests, instead of dealing with any of the emotions flooding her… well, not body. She glances at the still-bleeding body of the werewolf on the floor of the church. “I know it’s abandoned, but a massive great werewolf would turn some heads, I think?”

“You’re right,” Cleo says, and turns to start dragging the remnants of the pews over with her one good arm, tossing the wood atop the werewolf’s body. “We can burn it. The church should remain standing, it’s stone, but this should get rid of the evidence.”

Sam immediately scrambles to help, dragging over as much wood as they can while Bette dithers between using some magic to help and conserving her energy. The fight took a lot out of all of them, and it’s already taking a lot of energy for Bette to remain corporeal. 

It turns out she needn’t have worried; Cleo and Sam both handle it, and then Cleo drops a match onto the wood. It’s dry and old, and goes up like a shot as they all back out of the sanctuary. 

As Cleo stands there in the flames of the church, Bette wants to kiss her, but that’s nothing new. She’s wanted to kiss Cleo ever since she first saw her, laying on the bench at uni, legs splayed over the side of the bench. The image changed after Bette finally worked up the courage to ask her out; Cleo still laying on the bench, of course, but this time her head was in Bette’s lap as they talked and laughed and kissed. 

There’s a spot of blood on Cleo’s cheek, now, illuminated in the street lamps as Sam speeds away - maybe the fourteen year old shouldn’t be driving, but they’re the best option at the moment. Cleo is still clutching her left arm with her right (her shoulder is definitely dislocated, and as much as Bette trusts Sam, they’re not strong enough to help pop her shoulder back in, and Bette is… well. Not going to be able to help), and Bette can’t really hold the  _ wheel _ proper, so she’s not an option. 

Sam is talking at a mile a minute, yammering on about the fight with their eyes all lit up in excitement and adrenaline. “It was  _ wicked, _ it was, Cleo was all  _ whoosh  _ and then Betty just  _ crushed  _ it and did you  _ see _ her, it was  _ well _ good, and -“

Bette tunes Sam out as they continue to recap the entire fight, complete with sound effects, and scoots over to Cleo’s side of the car. She leans up and rests her hand on Cleo’s shoulder - a shadow from a day long gone, but Cleo still turns and smiles at her. It’s not the same, not anymore. There’s no love in the smile, not in the way Bette is used to, but it’s still warm enough to make her feel like she’s flickering a bit. 

She doesn’t pull her hand back as they drive off into the unknown. 

On to fight another day. 

**Author's Note:**

> have a niche joke: no jay’s were harmed in the writing of this fic
> 
> write female characters in your fics or die by my sword


End file.
